Monday, April 30, 2012

I have a lot to say.

Hello, there. I wouldn't call this post completely fictitious, it's a...different style of writing that I attempted, to free my head of certain epiphanies and visions that were rather vociferous. It was stimulated by Van Gogh's Starry Night. And call it crazy, I found just the variation of the painting I wanted, online. So the following is somewhat a cornucopia of strings of thoughts, that came in one after the other while I was in the strangest mood, and I never stopped. It may not make sense, due to the drastic transitions of odd imagery. But it's raw and unedited.
That should be intriguing enough.

I have a lot to say about your catastrophic ways at romance.The kind which elevate your lovers just enough to bring them down on hard rubble, away from the skies and your red skirts.
The deep rings of the ocean will coo deep within the marine land which would then birth the butterfly effect, around the world. You never considered the golden strings around that quiet cocoon which conceived an unholy crossbreed of the moth that resigned to growth. 
All those tales which sing the hymns of Juliet aren't all that forlorn, anything that's been a part of history has stirred, moved, revolted, and been enshrined in script, in mind- though very few in heart.There's a brothel in your mind, perhaps there might be a temple, even. The point of reckoning being, there's a threshold to both them abodes. Each threshold holy to its indweller in their own ways.There's a sense of exhilaration in the careless free-fall of ash. That sense of exhilaration magnifies at the cinch attempt of beating that ash to dry paste. The salt and pepper like appearance brings about a silly sensation of appeasement. The heart has been an immigrant to seek, it can also be an emigrant to leave. Ultimately, words when spoken are relative, for they are evanescent once the will erodes and the thought is forgotten. What is fearless? The absence of fear may sound splendid, but uncommon. Is 'fearless' a state of insensitivity when the repercussions fail to inflict any sort of effect on you? Because then it wouldn't be such a glorious feeling after all.  In all its ignorance it may give me the attention that would tame me. However in the midst of all the shenanigans your existence may be party to, there lies an order in the desperate disorder of chaos. Now isn't that brilliant and inspiring? 


Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Stewie Griffin is my homeboy.

Greetings, World! 
I be back from the mountains and might I add it was (to say the least and sound sober) the best effing trip ever. Ev-er. Ev-er. Ever. 
I see you've got the point. So yes, best trip ever- only we took it with a pinch of salt cause the fourth lady of our wolf pack stayed back to become an ace lawyer. So yes, that tiny  huge set back shall be taken care of next time we pull her by the hair irrespective of lawyers dying all around the world. 

Coming back to the trip, we did..well, nothing. We woke up to the sound of the strangest bird calls (AND I STILL FIRMLY BELIEVE A FOX WAS GOING TO KILL US WHILE WE WERE AT IT.) We stayed at a tent which felt like the tent from the quidditch match in Harry Potter's Goblet of Fire. (The cheap thrills we derived out of it, I tell you!) =D

Anyhow, so we used to sit in/ out and chill all the time with regular rounds of coffee. There was bonfire every evening, and the camp had a gorgeous(estestestest) reading lounge where we chilled and read books till late at night, and the occasional games of Scrabble where I whupped everybody's sorry butts =) 
The food started from typical parathas to pasta to continental to french omelets. (Excuse me while I run back, again.) Oh and did I mention all you saw around was huge sprawls of fields and snow caped mountains? 
Yeah, thattttt.

Apart from that, we went Paragliding and white water rafting. Now THAT, ladies and gentlemen kind of blew us off our feet. Yeah, just a little. Yeah, uhhuh. (head must stop nodding.)
And then not to mention Old Manali, which is basically the Pahargunj of Delhi with a gazillion hippies and gorgeous Italian cafes.

So yeah, I finally got an old school leather bound diary and thus begins my promise to literally put pen to paper instead of typing stuff all the time. 

The ladies and I. Hippie style. :)
So yes, Campville was the best place that could happen to us after boards. You can visit their site here. And at any point when you're sick of life or just need to get out in general and fall on your butt straight in the middle of the heaven, Campville is the place to be! :)

Aaaaaaaaand, I'm having some major post Himachal withdrawals. So yes, Delhi feels dangerously useless right now. Not to mention there's some bad news at home but hey I'm not even getting there. The whole point of this post was to get my mind off things. So yeah. I'm absolutely jobless, I'm home alone, and the Family Guy is a beautiful beautiful old friend I reunited with after a whole year. =)

And now, I shall go waste time. Write some, read some, watch some and get the hell out some. 


P.s- Major fiction spam coming up, brethren. 

Tuesday, April 17, 2012


Greetings from a happy child, ladies and gentlemen!
It's precisely 3:59 am and might I add, I'm sleep deprived and absoluuuutely content. Read on (*nudges.)

Fact: The end of Boards, 2012.

So thus, this is to basically inform (shout and tear my lungs out, basically) you lovable peepol that the brutal drill of Boards are finally, finally over. You probably want to rip my head out and munch on it with coke for the Fiction overload and the mind numbing rants on the same sulk stories but... Pass it, bro. Happy days are here again. =P

April the 16th has been a legendary day, for reasons beyond academic priorities. I'm not much of a play by play person, so reciting every grain of a wonderful day at multiple levels will perhaps have to wait. Nevertheless, lets just say, April the 16th has been a pricey date for good reasons. =)

In other news, the culmination of Boards as a hard fact hasn't quite hit me just yet. I keep forgetting and gasp every time at the time, while try and calculate how many chapters might have to pull for the night.
And then this slyyyy grin makes its way through and the 32 all out are in action =D
(And I swear, Mojo Jojo's laugh hasn't been this loud in my head, ever. Ever. And then there's some of Mandark's too, occasionally.)

So this is a quick post telling you people that I have literally nothing to do for a while (except identify with the song 'These are a few of my favorite things'. Nyahaha)  and there's this mental scene of Bhangra going on in my head, all the time. =)
Oh and also, I'm off to the mountains. So I shall read books in the middle of apple farms and go diving without knowing the first letter of swimming. If I die, nobody gets my Tazo collection. They be buried with me. And now I'm just blabbering. (Oh, forgive me but I just happened to slog my 'ttub' spelled backward off the past few months and you'll just have to deal with every dime of blabber. Okay, no you don't but whatever. Please? )

And, just by the way... So I was just going to put this out there :

(*Family members reading this blog will kindly ignore the overemotional usage of vocabulary.)

And now I shall go pack my bag with shorts and tee shirts along with flip flops.

(how long have I waited to type just everything in this post.)

Love and everything with a lot of free time,
-Nil. (Imagine the Scooby Doo smile okay? There!) :D

Thursday, April 12, 2012

Exodus Entrada.

Dear City,
I've mostly been told letters are to be written to lovers, to the dying, and some times, to the dead.
Well, you've been a lover- perhaps the only man who's been worthy of an intimate relationship after the death of Christ. You're dying, too- all your allies, bridges, and red lights have been walked on.
And perhaps, you're dead- because nothing new fosters within you, anymore. It's the same grass that has now stopped looking greener on the other side along with yellow mornings and shifting sky colors from yellow to orange bitten with a tinge of pink which melts into a purple with a brilliant hue of navy blue that fades into the black with fictitious stars.
Thus, my writing to you is legitimized to the judiciary of my mind, and thus we may proceed.

So you've prided yourself a good deal with the million pairs of boots that hit the city roads every morning, the coordinated cattle of pedestals who zebra-cross the road with every red light, the green bills that make their way to the bagel cafes every morning for breakfast along with the overwhelming gray sky scrapers; in one of which a boy of fourteen sits on his piano and plays the piano every day at seven. You have to your credit every millionaire and the thousand or two migrants that make their way to your sheltered dome of dreams turned inside out reality. You have to your debit the invisible peddlers and those dreams turned inside out illusions. 

You're given a play by play of each and every self. A little side of you is ignited with every lighter that is lit, a certain avenue has a couple swinging to streetlamps, and every sixth cab has a story of life and death in process.
You're a busy boy, dear City. A genre of busy that I've seen and lived while thriving in you. The city lights are now unfocused and form vague patterns of bokeh. They're still gorgeous, but pointless. 
So there you go. Another immigrant of origin and an emigrant of compassion ; Nay, I have no hopes, desires, expectations or compassion for your gates and highways no more.
I've lived you, and you've aged while my toes reached higher on their tips to see beyond the Queen's necklace of your city lights. 

I hope for my absence to resonate within your territory which has no vacuum or extra space even for the citizens, let alone the goners. Nevertheless, I hope for you to at least let my hue run behind the trunk of my car, while I travel away to a new destination. A destination that would be the recipient of a similar letter, a few years from now.

You've been good to me,
A Traveller.


Saturday, April 7, 2012

Across the universe.

Of the few odd fortnights when you sit down and let out a sigh for none of the moons in particular, just a sudden act of simple contentment which surprises you,too. You blink a little more often with a silly grin on your face trying to realize the sudden lightness in your head, which has generously stopped buzzing.
Almost as if the universe was listening, the next track beautifully tunes on to a familiar, forgotten Beatles song. You literally roll your eyes at thin air, a mental salute at impeccable timing.

The head starts bobbing to the slow beats of Come Together and you can almost see yourself right in front of you, dancing to that very song with your closest pals into the night, the laughs, the girls shrugging off their heels and the boys loosening their ties. You remember the three pairs of hook ups around you and the thirty or two hiccups around the dimly lit terrace.

Michelle starts playing, and you're taken back to that one particular yellow afternoon when it was hot as hell and you were stranded in the middle of the road with a pair of torn green flip flops. That afternoon was your first proposal, ever. Well you saw one, anyway. A boy on his cycle with quiet lilies tucked in his school bag while the girl looked down at her feet blushing, who finally said Yes.
Boy, you remember fist punching the air and walking past them barefoot, grinning like a madman with eyes as big as almonds.

And the next thing you know, you find yourself standing in the corridors of your old school with the English teacher you literally preached; listening to stories of her time and her lady secrets hidden into yet another Beatles number. You remember her humming to Love me Do and complaining about how your friends and you have not a clue of the real songs by them Mc.Cartney and the boys.. about how Ringo would always be the Star. The first and the last time your 53 year old English teacher looked like a little dreamy girl to you.

"You say goodbye, and I say hello...hello hello hello! I don't know why you say Goodbye, I say hello" was the first and the only line of Hello Goodbye you remember of the one real drunk night in a far away city with a friend who's as good as a stranger, now. It was a happy night, and they were good times, and all good things came to an end, and you left it at that.
"You say goodbye, and  I say hello.."

And finally, the song your mother sang to you since you were five.. Lovely Rita, probably one of your youngest and oldest memories. You laugh at your mother all by yourself tonight, remembering her pretending to play the piano like a drunk man every time she sang the song with her checkered apron on and red platforms.

The night rolls on to the last song.. you know it's the finale when you hear the song of young days and younger hearts singing to And I Love Her. He was the one boy and you were the one girl, and that was the one song. And you keep telling yourself it doesn't make your heart skip a beat, still. You keep telling yourself that it was long time ago, and you just keep telling yourself a lot of things. And finally, you give up and smile.

.........and once silence fills in the room again, you realize how stiff your body's become from sitting on that chair for a while now, you come back to reality and grow up all over again.
Yes, sir. You grew up with all those songs. And whoever you are, make sure that 'one odd fortnight' happens a little more often, and make sure you salute those four boys with impeccable timing. Make sure, you remember those songs, cause the universe is listening.
The universe is listening to The Beatles, right now.

(Because I'm in my yellow submarine..yellow submarine..yellow submarine.)

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

That of a jester.

No, it isn't blissful. It isn't very brave, either. Of all the things that you convinced me for what you were, disappointment wasn't quite a noun present. But then again, I fail to make anything out of you, all of a sudden. I've damaged my own confidence to its debris, for I have not a hint of what goes on in your head; what's been going on in your head. You're the death of a Confrontationalist. The meaningful stays within you bottled up, while all the meaningless rubbish you reiterate from time to time gets on my nerves, what a fool you are. Or what I fool, have I been?
Your repartee stymies me, they aren't enjoyable anymore.
There was a sense of kindness in your eyes, which you try to elude now. There was a sense of honesty in all your joys and laughter, and just why don't they feel sincere anymore? 
You look to me, like an insecure creature of the wild who's been betrayed by its animal instincts.  You're right to be cautious, but what I see is denial. 

Please don't make me regret what doesn't deserve to be, go right ahead and prove me wrong. You're terribly precious a comfort, unabashedly and unjustly important. Your ignorance is sinful, it isn't near to bliss. 

A sad joker haunts; take off that hat, throw away the red ping pong on your nose, your paper painted face must be washed, fall out of that green suit, and wipe off that chalked smile.

Come back, dear boy. Recognition awaits you.

(Don't ask.  Brain farts have been taking over my existence and I promised fiction, yes I did.)